


The Final Work of Arthur Morgan

by thepapercrow



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Antisocial Charles Smith, Body Horror, Exhibitionism, Feral Behavior, Gaslighting, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Protective Arthur Morgan, Serial Killers, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapercrow/pseuds/thepapercrow
Summary: Charles had seen his share of death, but the corpse he’d left behind wasn’t just any man- Arthur was Dutch’s adoptive son and right-hand man. The first gang member to befriend him.Dutch had seemed bored the day he welcomed Charles into his collection of misfits and criminals, polite yet distant- as if the invitation was born of a whim rather than any true interest. Dutch’s eyes had wandered to his bow more than his face. To the deer over his horse. But then, after months living on the edge of the group but never breaking through that invisible barrier, Arthur had suddenly seen him. Charles hadn’t particularly liked him. The man was brash and rude and quick to anger and drink, but he was also wild and shocking in a way that broke right through the haze he existed within. Charles still couldn’t say exactly what Arthur had been to him, but now it didn’t matter. Now he was just something dead- lying on the ground, head a tangle of matted hair and seeping brains.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I meant to write for Halloween but somehow it's December! Although it's maybe not as distressing as the tags suggest, there is definitely heavy violence and unhealthy relationship dynamics present, so be prepared! It's only two chapters total and definitely the weirdest thing I've written.

**Now: Job III**

Arthur was shot in the head on their third job together. One moment they’d been sneaking through the oil refinery in search of bonds, the next, desperately tearing though steam and shouts, trying to break free from stinking labyrinth of a factory- pipes and jets of smoke obscuring their path at every turn. Charles led the way on the narrow second floor walkway, rushing forward to any sparse cover he could find with Arthur close on his heels. But even Arthur’s deadly aim wasn’t enough to thin the waves of armed guards rushing up the stairwell in droves, clearly more familiar with the floorplan that either of them.

“Freeze, and you’ll come out with your lives!” A voice boomed from below, impressively loud to reach their ears over the screaming machines. But the guns leveled from the wall of men didn’t speak of forgiveness, and neither one of them slowed in their steady progression. Fire, forward, duck, wait. They got closer to the window with each repetition. But in his fixation with the window and the men grouped in the stairwell, Charles didn’t even notice the sniper below them as they hurried down the grated bridge and had no time to prepare for that first devastating shot.

“Got ‘im!” a victorious cry rang out, bursting out in the silence after the shot. 

Charles could only turn in horror at the pained shout, seeing Arthur stumble backwards in his peripheral, hazy from the smoke and grime clouding the air and filling their lungs. But even as he extended his arm to pull the man up, the next shot landed, striking Arthur in the back of the head and emerging with a fountain of gore from his front left eye. Something hard and sharp hit Charles in the cheek. Arthur’s hand fell from his own and he crumpled back to the metal with a final reverberating thump, deadweight with twisted limbs.

Charles stared in horror and got a graze to the shoulder for his efforts. Somehow, he forced himself to take cover behind some thundering machinery that billowed smoke in his face. With a final deep and regretful look at Arthur’s crumpled form, he took off towards a window. The drop was two stories, but he had few options, there was no getting down the staircase through the onslaught of men. He didn’t even have time to ponder whether to climb or jump- the appearance of the men behind made the decision for him and he could only fling himself out of the window. He slammed into the ground seconds later, falling forward hard on his knees with a groan, head throbbing as much as his legs at the impact. Everything hurt but he could stand, and with thoughts of blood and smoke he somehow staggered on, fear fueling every step. Shouting followed him out.

**2 months earlier: Job I**

“What do you think Mr. Smith?” Arthur asked one day from his spot between John and Dutch. They’d been arguing over a strip of leather of all things, but Charles had been mostly tuning it out as he ate his stew at the firepit. If Arthur somehow knew that leatherworking was a hobby of his, Charles would be extremely surprised, but the man asked him all the same, waving him over. He hesitated, but he _did_ know a lot on the subject. So he put the spoon down and shared what he knew and by the time he was done, Dutch’s mouth was hanging open in surprise. Arthur seemed to be gloating for some reason and in his wariness, Charles wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

“Didn’t know you were such an expert in leather craft. Maybe you can be helpful to Pearson when you’re done eating.” He’d just returned from the hunt not an hour before.

“You aren’t the only one with a brain, Dutch- despite all them books,” Arthur said with a yawn. “He did survive on his own out there for years, didn’t ya?” Charles struggled not to glare, unsure if he was imagining the patronizing tone. He was suddenly uncomfortable with the three men considering him from their places sprawled out by the fire like they had no real cares in the world. His back still hurt from crouching in the woods stalking deer all day and his arms felt the impact of axe on wood. Food was more available now since descending from that frigid mountain, but he was the only one who bothered hunting for it. 

“Yeah,” he said curtly.

“You’ll have to tell us about that sometime.” Dutch said, friendly but without any real interest, clearly done with the conversation now that the argument was settled. He nodded to them and turned to leave and return to his dinner. “Remember to talk to Pearson,” Dutch called after him and he didn’t bother to fight the glare. This gang provided safety sure, but there was a reason he’d chosen to be a loner here- he was uncomfortable with the boasting and competitiveness, the dismissive attitudes. It seemed like every time someone collected the odd rusted pocket watch they felt compelled to announce it loudly to the group. Micah was the worst, gloating about all manner of trivial victories that rang untrue. And Dutch just ate it up, heaping praise and glamourous jobs onto him- the snake grin growing wider and wider at the attention. He didn’t seek out Pearson that night, he still had watch duty the first half of the night. Possibly longer if Bill got dead drunk again tonight.

The night air was quiet, the forest still as he positioned himself on a fallen tree with a sigh. These woods were dense and unwanted visitors and wandering predators were rare. Maybe he _should_ try harder to fit in with the group, making opportunities out of such inquiries instead of assuming the worst. He liked Javier and Hosea well enough and the occasional domino games with Tilly or Jack were welcome even. But there was something that stopped him from joining the campfire gathering each night, something ugly and fearful that seemed to blaze out of control the closer he got.

“Hey,” Arthur greeted him from nowhere, startling him from his bitter thoughts.

“Hello,” he said, trying to keep the surprise from his voice- he hadn’t heard his approach at all, but here the large man was, right beside him.

“You’re mad, ‘bout what we were sayin’, huh?” Arthur didn’t look too apologetic though, just curious as he sat down next to Charles. Too familiar.

“Not mad.”

“Okay then, if you want me to fuck off- just say so. Won’t be offended or nothin’, kind of figured you would if I poked you enough.”

“You’re trying to poke me then?” Charles didn’t want to talk to him, had been able to avoid it for the most part for the months he’d been with the party. A quick hunting trip in the mountains the only time he’d even spent with the man alone. He’d considered offering to teach him how to use a bow up there, but Arthur’s steady handed grip on his rifle and scowling face convinced him otherwise- some men didn’t want to be taught anything, and Arthur Morgan seemed just the type. So they’d stumbled through the snow in near silence, Arthur with his gun and Charles with his bow. His burned hand had bled that night, and he’d cursed his own stubbornness as he watched the new skin sloughing off his fingers.

He’d kept mostly to himself since then, but with Arthur Morgan and Micah Bell he took special caution. Arthur was clearly the harder worker and more competent of the two, but he was wary all the same, seeing evidence of the violence all over him. Blood on his clothing most days, heaps of valuables for the box, hands with perpetually split knuckles. At least Arthur never spat out obscenities and insults at him like Micah- his preferred targets seemed to be Bill, Uncle, and John. If he even happened to be in camp at all. The man was fleeting, his tent standing empty more nights than not.

“What? Nah, nothin’ like that. Just wanted to recruit you to a job maybe. If you want.” That was surprising, as was the sheepish tone in the other’s voice. He’d half expected to be put on Arthur’s bad side after stalking off for no apparent reason earlier. But here he was with a peace offering. “Workin’ with half these folks is pure hell.”

“Oh.”

“Micah.” Arthur began bitterly, somehow making a question from Charles’s one word. “Dutch’s tryin’ to get me to bring him along but I think I might accidently snap and downright kill the guy if he starts runnin’ his mouth again. Besides, what I’m plannin’ is a bit too sensitive for types like his.”

“Alright,” Charles didn’t know what else to add, what level of thankfulness he was expected to offer a senior member for asking him along. Didn’t really care.

“Good, be ready to leave later tonight. Hour maybe.”

“But I’ve got guard duty.” He held up the rifle pointedly.

“Get Bill to do it, he’s on for later anyway.” The answer was nonchalant, like Charles bullying Bill into taking his work was just the order of things. Like Bill didn’t have years of seniority over him and a single charitable bone in his body. Maybe he just didn’t care. But when Charles made no move to follow his directions Arthur just shrugged, “alright then, I’ll tell the big bastard.” And with that he sauntered off, leaving Charles to contemplate his wildly altered evening. Maybe he should have just told Arthur to fuck off.

-

The ride was uneventful. Arthur occasionally asked a question or commented on the terrain, but they both remained mostly in their own thoughts as they made the hour-long trek towards the closest city. And city it was, it was no dusty frontier town or farming community. The streets were cobblestone rather than dust or clay, the electric lights strung above them dizzying, almost aggressively bright. But for all the attempts at class and distinguishment, the city was putrid and smoky- a crudely sprawling beast springing to life in the shadow of its crudely erected refinery. Even the horses seemed at odds with the rough stones under their hooves, Taima moving distrustfully behind Boadicea.

“Think I rather put up with Micah over livin’ in this stench,” Arthur said with a cough, and Charles had to agree.

“So, can you tell me what we’re doing yet?” he asked, squinting against the unnatural illumination, Arthur’s comment finally drawing him out of his head.

“Just here to see a man. Might get some money in the process though, hopefully a lot if we have any sort of luck. And if not, at least we’ll get to see the city in all her beauty.” Charles didn’t know him well enough to tell if that was sarcasm, but it had to be from the way the man was continuously coughing. He wrinkled his own nose in distaste, the tannery they passed was only surpassed in stench by the adjacent slaughterhouse. But gross as it was, Arthur suddenly swaying in his saddle was unexpected. Charles could only watch as Arthur slumped off his horse next to the drainage ditch, landing only a few feet from the sprawling patch of putrefied sludge. He dismounted and rushed over to help.

“You alright?” A stupid question sure, given Arthur was currently gasping for breath, but he managed a nod to Charles.

“Sure, burns is all…” Arthur must be more sensitive than him, it smelled bad sure, but it wasn’t physically painful. But Charles didn’t shame him any, just pulled him up and guided him down the road on foot, trying not to tense at Arthur’s closeness and arm around his neck. The smell dissipated somewhat as they moved onwards, but Arthur didn’t bother to let go of him and Charles idly wondered if Arthur had some sort of lung sickness. “Remind me not to go back that way,” he grumbled with a final cough. Charles just nodded and was shocked at the little thankful smile he received. It was more of a grimace but even so, it was the first sign that there was anything but malice in the man. He looked away and his face felt warm at their proximity. He stepped backwards from the man with a little cough of his own.

“Yeah.”

As the night went on Charles grew even more confused about Arthur Morgan. The evening started with him interrogating an antiques dealer the until the man pissed himself in fear at the back of his workshop. After a tense standoff Arthur agreed to leave him alive with a glare, brushing past Charles angrily on the way out of the garish shop. Then he’d decided to waste time petting a stray dog while Charles nervously kept guard over him, certain the shopkeeper would break free and run straight to the sheriff’s office. After leaving the dog to its devices, Charles had followed Arthur as he hurried off to the sheriff’s office to locate their next target- a prisoner by the name Earl Burk. Charles had never seen such an imposing structure, towering stone walls and tall windows reminding him more of a courthouse or government building than a prison.

“I just need you to distract the lawmen, I see three of them in there now,” Arthur whispered to him, eyes peering into the window above them while Charles crouched beside him. The little alleyway they’d crammed themselves into was claustrophobic but well sheltered from the main road and he tried to ignore how Arthur’s thigh was resting against his own. It would weird to make a big deal of it and move away. “Rather not get in a fight with law tonight.”

“I can do that.”

The distraction was easy, Charles simply entered the building through the front door, bandana affixed tightly to his face, hair hidden away in his tunic. Faces rose to his and immediately panic and confusion ran wild. Charles didn’t even need to say a word to lure them after him- leading the two larger men on a chase though unfamiliar streets and ditches. He hadn’t broken any laws, but his abrupt appearance clearly triggered something in their minds, like hunting dogs catching a scent and whipping themselves into a frenzy. But he was faster, outpacing them easily even through unfamiliar streets and alleys. It was in one of these little protected alleys that Charles made his move, waiting for the men to make the final turn before reversing the attack, rope in hand. One stray shot hit the cobblestones, throwing up a cloud of gravel as they struggled, but only one. The men went down easy, big city bureaucrats dressed up in shiny uniforms, already weakened by the short chase. 

When they were immobilized with their hands tied and gags around their mouths, Charles jogged back towards the prison with his bandana removed and hair straightened down. He took down another patrolling officer on the way- a large threatening man that put up more of a fight than both the other men combined. But he came out on top and wrestled the man to the ground, tying him up and stowing him in a nearby alley just like the rest.

But for all his efforts to prevent bloodshed, he returned to a grisly scene. The building was empty of law, but the remaining prisoners shrank back from him as he walked down the marble passage. In the third cell, he found the body- spread out, blood painting the back wall in an impressive arterial spray. His throat was a mess of gore, near torn off and sagging at an alarming angle. His fingernails were all gone, as were his toenails. There surely were other wounds but Charles had to look away. Just what had Arthur dragged him along to?

“There you are.” Charles whipped around. Arthur was covered in fine specks of blood, his collar a bit ruffled, but he looked unaffected by the morbid picture painted across the walls and floor. “Reckon’d I’d meet you outside.” Charles was starting to see why they’d agreed on that, this wasn’t the type of thing most men would want to be caught doing.

“Thought you might need some back up, but it looks like you got everything covered,” he said, glancing at the broken body pointedly. But Arthur just nodded, and Charles had his answer- an admittance that it _was_ in fact Arthur who’d brutalized Burk. The man pulled a wad of cash out of his jeans and tossed it over to him without a word, then they left without another word. The ride back was equally silent, Arthur leading the way through the nearly pitch-black woods. When they reemerged into the rocky outcrop, Charles collected his rifle and took his place guarding camp from his usual log, Bill nowhere in sight. What he hadn’t expected was Arthur following him out there.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that, didn’t mean for it to get to that point at all. Had no choice…” Arthur started.

Charles shrugged, eyes averted- Arthur was a violent man in violent company and Charles should get used to seeing evidence of it. Would make keeping his distance easier. It was almost laughable, the man who clearly had no qualm with brutality trying to explain himself to another outlaw with his own bloodstained hands. But at least Charles had never _tortured_ anyone.

“Did you really need my help with any of that?” He finally asked.

He could see the shrug even in the dim light, Arthur’s features softer outside of the fierce glow of that unnatural city, “it certainly didn’t hurt nothin’. Besides, I wanted to see how you work. If you’d keep your head.” A test then?

“One of us needed to,” Charles hadn’t intended the criticism, but he didn’t regret it either. If the man wanted to get to know him, it would be better to be blunt to let the man know he wasn’t going to be his ally in such brutal pastimes.

“It had to happen.” Arthur seemed be warring with embarrassment and anger, “I kept my head plenty for what that man did to us all. He was a traitor and a murderer, maybe somethin’ worse than that too.”

“I see,” he said. Arthur lit up beside him with a sigh, not expanding on what crime warranted being mauled to death in a dank jail cell. Charles turned down the offer of a cigarette, the city streets had been smokey enough for him. If Arthur noticed his discomfort, he didn’t comment, just smoked leisurely beside him, minutes ticking by in silence.

“So do you want to go huntin’ with me sometime? I’m tryin’ to catch all the legendary animals out here and I hear there’s a bison around here.” That surprised a laugh out of him, and Arthur looked back at him with genuine confusion, cigarette hanging out of his mouth dangerously. Of course, in addition to everything he’d seen today, Arthur was also a trophy hunter. “What? I thought you was a hunter,” Arthur said, defensive now.

“Well yeah, but not for the glory- just to eat.”

“Goddam, when’d I say anythin’ about glory? It’s just a way I track down large animals is all- not like I waste the meat. I just thought you might want to go with me, forget it.” Arthur went to move away and finally give him some peace, but Charles hesitated, feeling suddenly guilty for shaming the man over a simple invitation. 

And so he found himself agreeing. “You could come along with me tomorrow if you want, sorry for assuming.” It was curt and clearly sounded forced, but Arthur nodded back at the stiff invitation, sitting right back down next to him to light another cigarette. Maybe this man was as socially inept as him, ‘Dutch’s favored son’ or not. _That_ gave him a little thrill at least.

“Why are you talking to me now though. Been here for months without you giving me a glance-” Charles cut himself off, that almost sounded like he’d been waiting for Arthur to do just that. He was just curious after the hours together, the invitations seemingly out of nowhere. Arthur shrugged.

“I like that you don’t put up with camp drama, even with Dutch. Thought you didn’t like me much but then you agree to the job, and now hunt with me. So to my line of thinkin’, means we may as well make the best of that.” Charles looked back at Arthur in surprise, the man he’d been avoiding for weeks and judging harshly all evening thought _he_ was open to friendship? He was at a loss for words.

“Um, that’s…” Arthur was looking at him expectedly with big eyes and he wasn’t sure how to let him down easily. Looking at him now, Charles couldn’t help noticing way his shirt hugged his muscles, the strong angles of his face so close to his own- closer than other men might sit. What did he want of him, following him around all day and getting in his space like this? He hadn’t been in such a demanding social situation in months and he could feel his heart beating faster as he struggled to find the right words.

“You like men then?” Arthur asked, the question casual, like he didn’t really care either way, but Charles couldn’t help another intake of breath. How had he even known that? From one little glance in the dark? Arthur may be an attractive man, but Charles had kept his eyes to himself for months, he had no interest in involvement with such a volatile person. But Arthur’s eyes were intent on him, demanding an answer.

He considered the other man again, focused on the ember illuminating his face. That one little question often spoke more of a proposition than of a simple curiosity, and _that_ was a bad idea. Might even be a test, a way to weed out something odd and unwanted from within the ranks. Charles had seen Arthur drag Owen off weeks ago after whispers of thievery trickled out to the gang. The younger man had put up a fight of course, but the weak flailing was nothing in face of Arthur’s solid arms and nobody in camp seemed inclined to offer the traitor any help. He’d expected to see them both return, Owen a little beat up and cowed, maybe with a black eye. But Arthur hadn’t returned for a couple hours and when he did, he was alone. They’d never heard from Owen again and after tonight Charles had a much better idea of what may have happened to him. Arthur was an enforcer, ‘Dutch’s watch dog,’ and maybe not above this type of interrogation. He’d spend a day hunting with him, but he wasn’t about to admit his secrets.

“No.”

“A shame. You’re handsome.” Arthur was close now, words a whisper. But he finally turned away leave with a shrug, flicking the spent cigarette on the ground by their feet. “I won’t bother you no more.” Did that mean for their hunting trip too? That somehow sat wrong with him, but he couldn’t bring the question to his lips. But as Arthur made to leave, Charles hesitated, suddenly not wanting to be left alone out here with more questions than ever. It _had_ been a long time.

“What do you have in mind?” He cursed himself, the question was hesitant but the gaze that snapped to him was nothing short of vicious. Arthur must have taken that curiosity as agreement, he moved even closer.

“Wait.” And Arthur did, freezing before him with a little glare.

“What? You just messin’ with me then?” Charles couldn’t help his own irritation. Arthur couldn’t just expect to do whatever the hell he wanted after one question. So he stalled.

“No. But we’re right next to camp.” And there it was, Charles agreeing to whatever this was. He gulped but couldn’t help the little thrill at Arthur’s dark gaze. He stood, gestured to move further into the trees but Arthur shook his head.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to get away with it, it’s not like you say much. Expect you keep your mouth shut even while gettin’ fucked.” An obvious attempt to rile him up, but one that only partially worked- it’d hurt Arthur’s reputation more than his own if they were caught. And he certainly wasn’t about to let Arthur fuck _him_ with an attitude like that.

“Fine,” he said, surprising himself by pushing Arthur against a nearby tree, only feeling the tiniest bit of guilt at the thud. “You aren’t fucking anything though.” Charles could only stare at the face inches from his own now, incredulous as Arthur all but whined into his shoulder, dangerously loud. They really were close to camp and Arthur simply didn’t care.

The rest went by in a haze, the violence of pushing him down into the pine needles and manhandling him only riling Arthur up more. And while Charles tried his best to be quiet- he had a feeling there wouldn’t be much confusion on what had gone on when they returned to camp. His face burned.

“Will you be quiet?” he hissed at Arthur.

“If it bothers you, do something about it,” Arthur said, voice matter of fact despite the teasing words. Charles hesitated only a moment before clamping his palm onto Arthur’s mouth, surprisingly a gasp from the man. He considered the expanse of neck, how it’d feel to grab Arthur there- fully silencing the little whines escaping past his hand. Arthur was close already, he could see that, but the sudden growl and teeth latched onto his hand were unexpected. He cursed and tried to pull away, but Arthur bit down harder as he chased his own pleasure, only releasing his hand after going limp beneath him, blood pooling at his mouth and running down his chin. Charles stilled in shock, and Arthur stared back with wide eyes. Charles’s hand was dripping between them now, splattering onto Arthur’s hiked up shirt.

“Sorry…” Arthur trailed off, actually sounding apologetic and even a little scandalized. He licked the blood from his lips, eyes locked onto Charles’s hand.

“It’s okay,” he responded equally dazed, not entirely convinced of that but also still too full of images of choking Arthur out beneath him to feel much moral outrage. He was snapped back to the moment as Arthur tightened his legs around him, encouraging him on. They didn’t say much after, the hurried rebuttoning of clothing an all too familiar feeling. And not a great one.

Later that night after Bill finally took over the watch, Charles was struck by the oddness of it all. He’d had his various hurried and impersonal encounters with men, but nothing so jarringly violent. His hand still throbbed; Arthur had bit right through the skin in multiple places leaving something not unlike a blunt dog bite- a dirty wound to remember the night by. He woke up a couple times, confused, to the feeling of being watched. He felt his heart beating firm in his chest when he surveyed the dark, trying to decipher anything between the thick tree trunks and empty space. He’d picked this spot for the quiet, but now every twitching branch and animal movement registered as something dangerous behind his eyes. It was a long night. 

**1-2 months ago: Camp Happenings**

The next day Charles taught Arthur to use a bow, just as promised. The man was surprisingly amenable to Charles’s directions regarding scent trails and proper bow maintenance. He was almost impossibly talented with the bow. The first shot flew high, uselessly dropping to the ground but the second fell true- downing a wild turkey with a little thud. They didn’t catch any bison, but Pearson was happy enough with the birds and deer they dragged back. They ate their venison together that night, the whole day having passed without even the smallest reference to the night before. But when the sun finally set completely and the rest of the camp milled off, Arthur turned that same intent gaze on him.

“What are we doing?” Charles found himself asking, trying not to feel too eager after the weird vibe of the previous night.

“Fucking,” Arthur answered back without a pause, confirming his very thoughts, “unless you don’t want to.” Charles nodded. He supposed it was harmless enough, a clear-cut arrangement if he’d ever seen one. And so the weeks passed that way, Arthur drifting in and out of camp with no apparent pattern, one day angry and pacing with nothing but hard words for unsuspecting gang members, the next carelessly seeking Charles out with new hunting spots and sometimes even crudely drawn treasure maps. One look at Arthur’s face and Charles knew what type of day it would be, good days just barely making the bad one’s worth sticking around the changeable man. But life went on, and some days he was even content. 

-

“You seem happier now,” Tilly said as she placed her domino down, the innocent front betrayed by the curling of her smile. Despite her cheerful demeanor, and welcoming eyes Charles knew her as just as conniving as the rest of their lot. But somehow he’d come to like her, seeing none of the malice that sometimes accompanied criminals and gossips alike. “Does it have anything to do with Mr. Morgan, it sounds like the two of you are good friends.”

He tried to scowl at her but couldn’t manage much more than an embarrassed frown at her pointed look. But he felt no judgement and quickly turned the tables. “Perhaps. You also seem happier under Mary Beth’s ‘calming influence’ too.”

“Dut- whoever thinks anything about that girl is ‘calming’ is a fool. It’s a front, all of it,” she laughed, and Charles didn’t know what to think. But he’d heard Dutch say that about Tilly too, and that was also clearly untrue. “I’m glad though- I’ve always been thinking he could use some more friends, the poor man.”

“Why’s he ‘poor’? He seems well respected and free to do whatever he pleases.”

“He just always looked so sad all the time. I know he puts up a front and is sometimes nasty, but he’s also a gentleman. The way he’s with Jack and the horses, even seen him paying off people’s debts with his own money and going out of the way to help strangers.” Charles wracked his brain for any evidence that backed that up and came up short.

“Saw him pet a dog once?” he offered, and Tilly just laughed.

“I’m not surprised. I think that’s enough of that old man though, let’s say we go into town and get some real food for once? Mary Beth wanted to go too, if you can put up ‘womanly chatter.’” She gave a pointed little glare in Micah’s direction, where he was slumped against a tree.

“I… yeah, alright.” Tilly beamed.

“Good! Usually Arthur goes with us but he’s out on business lately. It’s nice to get some new faces involved.” That sounded ominous.

“So I’m Arthur’s replacement then? For some job I take it?” He asked, surprised at his own eagerness to make the journey into town. He got a little swat to the arm.

“You’re as bad as him at least, self-deprecating men. Let’s go then. Oh and don’t forget your gun…just in case.”

-

When he returned to camp, somewhat drunk with one pocket full of cash and another full of bar peanuts, Arthur seemed shocked and concerned.

“What were you doin’?” Concerned indeed. “How much did those witches make you drink?”

“Who you calling a witch Arthur?” Merry Beth asked in a voice as innocent as Tilly’s.

“Ah…Merry Beth…” Arthur seemed to consider his words before doubling down, “I was referrin’ to you of course. Look at him!” Charles swayed a bit.

“No more than you are!” she replied, holding herself much better than Tilly or Charles who had just discovered that standing shoulder to shoulder prevented the worst of the vertigo.

“Unbelievable, gettin’ drunk without me…” Arthur trailed off, but he didn’t seem too put off. “Let’s get you to bed then, Mr. Smith.” Charles’s allowed it, final wave to both the women who seemed to have lost all eyes for them, breaking down into a puddle of laughter.

Arthur’s seemed surprisingly okay with dragging him to his bedroll, but when Charles reached for the other man’s belt Arthur grabbed his hands, immobilizing them there. Did Arthur suddenly care about possible onlookers? He supposed they were closer to camp than usual, but when he checked the camp he couldn’t see anyone.

“No, best not do that…” Arthur said quietly, removing them. Charles was disappointed by the utter lack of reaction in the other man, so at odds with his usual eagerness. “I think maybe you’ll be sick…” he muttered, hurrying off and leaving Charles alone. But he returned seconds later with a waterskin, forcing it into his clumsy hands. “Drink all of that.” Charles just stared at him, shocked at the mothering until Arthur’s face fell back into the usual hardened glare. Better. “If you don’t drink it on your own, I’ll force it down your throat.” Charles couldn’t help the little bubbling laughter at that, fueled on by hours of idiocy. “I swear, you’re a completely different person like this…” Arthur trailed off, but Charles somehow saw that Arthur was about to make true on his promise so he drank the damn water and collapsed onto the bed roll.

-

When Charles got in his first fist fight in camp, Arthur seemed almost giddy as he helped wrap Charles’s bloody knuckles at the edge of camp. Charles couldn’t help the little spark of self-satisfaction when he remembered the bloody expanse of Micah’s face. The fearful withdrawal of a defeated predator.

“Glad you finally put that bastard in his place,” Arthur said. “Wish I got to see the fight itself but at least I saw him slinkin’ away in his own humiliation. Heard Javier won a few bucks off Uncle.”

Charles was mortified, so intent on his enemy that he failed to recognize just how big the crowd had grown until afterwards. “I’ve been trying to avoid conflict, seemed the wisest course of action given the situation.”

Arthur looked confused, “what situation?”

“Well… Dutch seems to like the guy a lot.” Arthur’s frown grew at that and Charles hurried to clarify, “I’m a stranger here Arthur, and somehow, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to rise to Micah’s level in Dutch’s mind. I was a bit surprised you let me in at all.”

“The fuck are you goin’ on about? Only reason Dutch likes that kiss-ass is because of just that- the bastard’s a kiss ass who hangs off every damn word he says. It’s disgustin’. If Dutch throws a fit that his pet got a bloody nose, you just tell him what started it and everything’ll be fine.”

“You seem awfully confident of that,” the rest was unspoken, that Arthur existed in a different space than him. But Arthur just sighed and leveled him with a glare.

“I am. Dutch’s a good man, even if he’s got terrible taste in dogs.” Arthur finished bandaging his hand, releasing it with a little pat. “Think you’ve got a rather critical view of your place here if I’m bein’ serious though. All the women love you.” He opened his mouth to explain their motives, but Arthur just chuckled at his expression before continuing, “Dutch doesn’t go throwin’ a fit every time you open your mouth like Bill or Sean. Micah is now terrified of you. Don’t see why you’re so hard on yourself.”

“There is that. But even so I think maybe this will be the breaking point.” he replied.

“If this is you tryin’ to leave…” Arthur looked worried and Charles tried to cover his own surprise, Arthur had misunderstood him once again. They were both fools.

“What? I’m not going anywhere. I _am_ happy here, I’m just worried Dutch will take issue with what happened.”

“Good. He won’t.”

Arthur kissed him for the first time then, and in his surprise, he allowed it longer than he should have.

-

Unfortunately, Micah’s bloody nose didn’t solve much. He left a wide berth between himself and Charles, but the grandiose bragging and suggestive comments to the women continued. The swats to Kieran and roughness with the horses. Simply put, he was a problem and Arthur were getting less and less patient. So when Lenny returned in a near panic from Strawberry, Arthur wouldn’t even listen to Dutch- outright refusing to go.

“He’d do the same for you,” Dutch tried, using guilt to guide the man.

“I’m not sure that he would,” Arthur replied. But somehow, in the end Dutch came up on top and Arthur stalked off with Lenny.

“No crazy business.” But from just the set of Arthur’s face, Charles knew the man wasn’t listening to the other, that he’d probably go out of his way just to spite the older man. And so, out of self-preservation, Charles turned down the invitation to town, hoping Lenny would have enough sense for both of them. They didn’t return that night, Lenny wandering back alone at daybreak.

“Where’s Arthur?” Charles asked with a wary glance at the mud absolutely crusting the younger man.

“He headed off for Strawberry. Said he was dealing with the Micah situation.” And so Charles returned to the camp chores and awaited the return of the loud-mouthed fool with a sigh. Maybe it would be too late, and he’d have already been executed for whatever crime he’d stirred up over there. He could dream at least.

-

“What do you mean he died?” Charles had never heard Dutch so furious. Especially with Arthur.

“Got shot on the way out of Strawberry, he was actin’ crazy Dutch- couldn’t help gettin’ himself shot up.”

“And the body?”

“I don’t know. They probably buried it behind the prison with the rest of them poor executed souls? I had to leave to escape the same damn fate.” Dutch was pacing in opposition of Arthur’s stillness.

“So let me get the story straight. You head off to Strawberry, get there in the dead of night, bust Micah out, and instead of fleeing into the woods, you both decide to shoot up the town?”

“Not both of us,” Arthur spit out with real disgust, “that was all him. I did my best to get him out .” The men glared at each other as Charles listened in from his spot behind his tent. He met eyes with Javier who just shrugged back uncomfortably.

“I want the body.”

“What?”

“You heard me Arthur. I want you to go up to Strawberry and retrieve me his corpse.” He paused and Charles and Javier exchanged another look- Dutch wasn’t this adamant about retrieving Mac, or Jenny for that matter. “By tomorrow.” Arthur hesitated, glaring dangerously.

“I’ll try.”

“See that you do.”

Arthur left that night and didn’t return for a week, finally riding back into camp with a sack strapped to his horse. Dutch was ready for him, hands on his hips, a little crowd gathered to watch. Charles tried and failed to catch Arthur’s eyes. He dumped the bag at Dutch’s feet.

“Sorry Dutch,” he sounded tired and cowed, “that’s the best I could do but it’s enough to bury.” Dutch stooped down to undo the drawstring, cursing as he revealed a heap of charred bones and ashes.

“After everything I did for you, after all these goddamned years. And this,” he gestured at the pile at his feet, “and this is how you repay me.”

“It’s the best I could do,” Arthur repeated, sounding more broken than Charles had heard him. “I..” Dutch didn’t let him finish, just stalked off into his tent, drawing it closed behind him. Hosea got up from his place at the domino table, a bewildered look on his face.

“He’s just upset. He really liked Micah and it’s shocking to lose a man like that. Get some sleep Arthur,” Hosea said to Arthur, and by extension, the rest of the gang. He turned on the crowd, all gaping in confusion at the spectacle. “Okay folks, that’s enough- the show’s over!” Hosea turned and hurried off after Dutch, only hesitating for a second before entering the tent. Charles kept expecting Arthur to seek him to vent, but the night was silent and lonely and a later scoping out of the campsite yielded no sign of him. Charles returned to his bedroll, trying to ignore the sting.

-

The tension didn’t improve after that day, both Arthur and Dutch at odds with one another and Hosea running back and forth, trying to help them reconcile. Clearly a fruitless effort. Dutch had been so sullen and aggressive Charles was waiting for Arthur to slink over to him with a busted nose. Micah’s grave was laughably close to the camp as if to remind Arthur of his mistake with every glance. Charles himself was certainly content to never see Micah again though, he could breathe easier without those beady eyes scanning the gang for weaknesses, eager to weasel his way deeper into Dutch’s good graces. It was an easy day of arrow making and Charles tried not to be too obvious as he watched Arthur interact with Jack. From Charles’s place, he seemed to like Jack more than John did even- a surprisingly fatherly side for such a man.

“Fishing again Uncle Arthur?” Jack didn’t sound too pleased with the offer Arthur made him and Charles couldn’t blame the kid, fishing was dull, the meat itself much less rewarding than a nice cut of venison. Arthur looked disappointed at the refusal. He sighed deeply and turned to Charles, who quickly averted his eyes back to the arrows he was crafting, embarrassed to be caught looking at all.

“Well, if your Ma agrees maybe we can try somethin’ different this time.” And then Arthur was beelining for him, Jack eagerly trotting after him. “Charles,” he sounded much nicer when there was a child nearby and Charles almost laughed at the display- Arthur pretending he wasn’t a sullen and irritable bastard.

“Arthur,” he turned his companion, “Jack. What do you need?”

“Was thinkin’ maybe we could borrow you a bit.”

“Hmm, for what?”

“Teachin’ Jack to hunt, you were a good teacher with me.” Charles couldn’t help his surprise, Jack was an eager pupil of dominos and numbers, but he was awfully young. No younger than Charles had been, but somehow that seemed different.

“And Abigail?”

“That’s another reason I need your help.” Charles had a hard time believing that, Abigail seemed especially taken with Arthur. But he agreed anyway, curious and bored sitting around camp. Abigail considered their request with a scowl, then with a final glance over to John she agreed.

“Only rabbits Charles, I won’t be having a deer gore my son. I trust between you and Arthur, nothing like that will happen?” It was a blessing, but also a threat. They both solemnly agreed to the terms and set off, Arthur pulling Jack up onto Boadicea. The weather was mild and the laughter of a child seemed to brighten it even further, Arthur and Jack pointing out various flowers and bugs as they rode onwards. Arthur was gentle and encouraging and Charles felt a sudden wave of fondness. Charles could probably learn to love such a man. But then the reality crashed down- surely this was just a façade. Arthur didn’t act like that unless he wanted something.

“You okay Uncle Charles?” Charles was shocked out of his thoughts by the new title, helpless in the face of the little boy’s question. They’d reached their destination and Arthur had taken it on himself to find a nice patch of shade, hat already covering his face, gloved hands crossed over his chest. He hadn’t been exaggerating Charles’s role here. Lazy. 

“Yeah, just thinking about something. Are you ready?”

“Yeah!” Charles hesitated before handing over the little bow, half afraid age would warp the wood and lead to an injured child. He’d tested it multiple times though, bow holding true each time. The lessons were slow going, Jack struggling to draw the string at first. But as the hours passed, Jack was finally able to hit more targets than not. They hadn’t moved on to rabbits yet and probably wouldn’t today, but Jack seemed thrilled with his own progress, already boasting about all the moose and mountain lions he’d topple. Charles looked on proudly, Jack was a good kid.

“That was yours?” Arthur had made his way over to his side at some point.

“Yeah, my grandfather made it. Only thing I have from back then.” Arthur bumped shoulders with him.

“Glad it can get some use then. He’s a good student.”

“Better than you at least,” a white lie maybe. Arthur had been such a good shot Charles had half doubted it was his first time. It earned him another nudge, this one harder. The day went on peacefully, Charles sitting up against a tree beside Arthur, shoulder to shoulder. 

“I don’t want to go back, hate it there right now,” Arthur admitted, and Charles could easily guess why. He could understand Dutch’s disappointment, but his anger at Arthur seemed misplaced and cruel even. Arthur and he watched Jack victoriously retrieve his arrows from the target with a little wave.

“I’m sorry he’s acting like that. It’s not your fault Micah was an idiot.”

Arthur leaned closer and started his confession. “I killed him, you know. That’s why Dutch was so mad- he could tell. Knew I’d done it the second I walked in without him.” Charles froze at the admission, not terribly surprised at the action, but rather the easy admission.

“You…did he deserve it?” He surely did, but he wanted to hear Arthur’s reasoning.

“I didn’t lie about the damn shootin’, Micah was actin’ crazy and killin’ folks all over the place. Near got us killed in the process. So after we escaped, I figured I’d need to do somethin’ about it- made him think we were headin’ back towards camp then I broke his ankle and dragged him into the woods.” Charles gulped, picturing it- Arthur’s calculating glare as he made his move, Micah’s fear and struggling, some unspoken ending within the cover of the trees.

“That what you did to Owen and Mac?”

“No. Weren’t personal with them- they was just business and Dutch wanted it that way. He set me on them.” Charles was uncomfortable with Arthur’s phrasing.

“And the body.”

“It refuted my story that he was shot. Too much evidence of what I actually did.” Charles’s stomach plummeted; what horrific acts had Arthur committed? He couldn’t bring himself to ask the details. But when he looked over at Arthur, the pain there seemed genuine. He couldn’t tell what was a façade and what wasn’t now. “You’re disgusted with me, I can tell.” Charles looked away, he should be- but some part of him understood his rage with Micah. The feeling of responsibility to keep the gang safe from such a person.

“I won’t lose any sleep over Micah. You confuse me sometimes and I don’t understand why a quick shot to the head wasn’t enough, but I’m not disgusted over him.”

Arthur grunted, looked calmed by the words if nothing else. “Don’t know why you’re confused by me though. I think I’m real simple.” Charles sighed and looked into the air. Of all the words he would use to describe Arthur, ‘simple’ was not one of them. But the day was warm and bright, and he refused to linger too long on such things. They even returned with a little rabbit for Abigail.

“You got any plans? Past this,” Arthur asked that night, gesturing to the calm camp in front of them. The log had become their smoking spot, as Arthur put it- though Charles never did smoke much himself.

“I’d like to think there’s more to life but sometimes that’s hard. It’s nice enough here though, not having to look over my back all the time.” Arthur looked happy at the that, but the little snort caught him off guard.

“You still do though. I see you sometimes, lookin’ real concerned and starin’ out into the woods. Refusin’ to sleep.” Charles froze, startled by Arthur’s easy admittance. His eyes were fixed on him now and Charles didn’t know what to say but Arthur spoke up again, saving him. “I’ve got your back at least, won’t let nothin’ happen to you.”

“Ah, thanks…” he trailed off. He’d come to understand Arthur was a bit odd and he supposed it wasn’t such a bad thing, having a strong fighter at his back. But that night, he got the same impression that he was being watched and tried not to shiver, wondering if Arthur was out there somewhere, keeping an eye on him even now. He felt warm, the thought equally frustrating and exciting and after an hour of tossing and turning under some imagined gaze, he had somehow found himself hard in his pants. He should lure Arthur out and put an end to his uncertainty. His body’s reaction to all this was frustrating, and soon it was all he could think about. So he slowly put a hand down his pants, eyes straining to catch any movement in the dark forest. Nothing, but he had the same feeling- that there was something, just outside his vision and continued, mindful to stay quiet lest he alert someone else. He felt foolish, but he was too far along now, tightness in his stomach, breath heavy against his pillow.

“Arthur…” he gasped out, maybe a bit desperate- he needed to know, and this was getting to be too much. But intent as he was at surveying the woods, he was unprepared for Arthur appearing on his other side, silent as ever. He startled at the hand latching onto his own wrist and prying him away, only relaxing when he felt the familiar warmth settle at his side. The lips at his throat were another surprise but he moved his head over to make room as Arthur took over from him, touching him with an equal desperation.

“It _was_ you!” he gasped incredulously. “Watching me. Half thought I was crazy.”

“I already told you that,” Arthur breathed into his neck.

“It’s creepy,” he gasped out- trying to sound stern but failing completely. But Arthur made an inquisitive little sound, right into the crook of his neck.

“Oh…” he sounded like Charles’s statement was somehow surprisingly to him. “I’ll stop then.”

“Just, I don’t know…” he trailed off, caught under Arthur’s ministrations, “just sleep here, with me if you need to look out for me so much.”

“Really?” And Charles wasn’t, wasn’t sure why that offer had slipped out at all, but right now with Arthur hot against him it didn’t sound so bad.

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this weirdness and happy late Halloween! Next chapter is pretty much done and will be posted within a week (just adding final edits now).


	2. Chapter 2

**1 month ago: Relocation**

The day they moved on from Horseshoe Bend was tense and charged, and Charles found he couldn’t stand the nervous energy rippling through the camp as Arthur recounted his run in with the Pinkerton agents. The day had started like any other, Arthur sneaking away from his bedroll as the day broke, some chores around camp. At some point Arthur had set out with Jack in tow, fishing poles strapped to his horse, but Charles had thought nothing of it. Had focused on his own morning, talking to Pearson and somehow getting a job from him from in between shouts aimed at Mrs. Adler. She shouted right back, louder even as he hurried away from the scene, leather and knife in hand. It was an hour later when Arthur had thundered back towards camp, face splotched in blood and arm wrapped around a comatose Jack, right into the path of an enraged Abigail. 

From then, things moved quickly. The camp seemed almost angry with Arthur as he recounted the tale of two men out for Dutch’s blood. Didn’t he know a child was present? How could he make a risk like that? But Arthur just glowered back.

“He was safe the whole time, I swear. The only danger those two bureaucrats could ever pose to us is bringin’ more folks up to our camp. Had him close his eyes.” But the debate over Jack’s safety continued, led by none other than the boy’s real father. Charles hung back still, but latched onto every word, certain life was about to change for all of them.

“Look at him Arthur! Looks like he was shot himself!” John continued. Jack was wrapped in Abigail’s arms across from the little group and Charles had to admit, the boy didn’t look well at all. He couldn’t blame him either, he too had seen Arthur in that state- fresh from a fight, face hard and deadly, a far cry from a kindly uncle to hunt and practice numbers with.

“Well he weren’t! He’s a tough kid.” John looked ready to continue with his enraged barrage, fists balled dangerously but Dutch finally stepped between the two of them, arms poised to block any outright violence from breaking out as the rest of the camp looked on in horror.

“That’s enough John! We can deal with the formative damage Arthur’s actions _may_ have caused on young Jack later. But now we need to focus on getting ourselves to safety.” John’s furled forehead didn’t ease, but he did step back, raising his own arms in bitter defeat.

“Fine,” he spit out, “this isn’t over though.”

Dutch nodded, and after a final cautious glance at John he turned to Arthur. “I need you to find a new spot for us. We need to move fast.” Dutch wheeled around, finally noticing Charles had sidled up to them to listen in. “Charles. You go with him.”

And just like that, they found themselves on the road together, riding hard across the open plains in search of their new home. They veered east this time, west too filled with afterimages of their violent crimes to offer any more sanctuary. Their first stop was the riverbed Dutch had suggested on their way out, but Arthur wouldn’t even get off his horse, surveying the uneven gravel from horseback with an unimpressed expression.

“Smells like rot here. Corpses and mud.” And Charles had to agree, it would be hard to defend and uncomfortable to camp in- especially if any flash floods filled in the river. So they kept riding forward, away from the circling crows and camp debris without a second look. It wasn’t much later when they ran into another gang of outlaws nestled up in the woods with a prisoner tied up and screaming. They exchanged nods and drew their weapons without a word exchanged. It didn’t take long, the volley of bullets flying between them and soon the captive’s whining cries were the only sounds remaining, the men they’d killed lying about, blood seeping into the dirt and christening their new camp site. But when Charles turned to check in with Arthur, he found him sitting on the ground, leant up against a tree at an odd angle.

“Were you hit?” Charles asked, concerned as he hurried over to Arthur to crouch down beside him. He was sweating and looked pained, but his shirt was saturated by too many fights and Charles couldn’t tell blood from blood. Arthur didn’t answer him “Arthur!” Finally, eyes jumped to his and locked on intently.

“I…” Arthur began, and Charles began to worry the man had been hit in the head, but his hair was thankfully dry from the gore. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You sure? You look pale.” Charles had heard of folk so high on battle lust or fear that they didn’t even register pain, who wouldn’t notice a broken back or missing limb before trying to stumble to their feet. He reached out to help Arthur, inspecting the man for any sign of injury but Arthur just gave him a truly enraged expression and Charles struggled to not shrink back from it, confused.

“I said I’m fine. I’m just tired… I think you should go back to camp.” He was breathing hard now, “get Dutch and the rest. I’ll untie our friend here.”

“And leave you here?”

“Yeah.”

“But- you seem hurt.”

“I said I ain’t.” Arthur said, voice clipped as he suddenly stood up and stalked back away from Charles. “See, I can move just fine.” And he did look mostly stable now, if extremely agitated. Charles hesitated, but Arthur was waiting for him to leave, the camp waiting for him to return with tidings of their new camp. He cursed under his breath and turned to his horse with one final glance back at Arthur. The ride back to camp was uncomfortable and he couldn’t help feeling that he’d made a mistake leaving Arthur there, that he’d return with the gang to find another corpse among the grass.

But hours later when they finally reached the clearing, Arthur was waiting for them calmy, cleaned up with a cigarette hanging from his lips. Charles kept his distance, waited for Arthur to seek him out and apologize awkwardly. He supposed there wasn’t much to forgive, but he couldn’t help the discomfort at Arthur’s sudden dismissal earlier. As if his concern was not only unnecessary, but offensive to Arthur somehow. But he gestured to the little campfire he’d made for himself outside the quickly growing main camp and elected to make peace.

“Let’s just eat, it’s been a long day.” So they did, roasting a couple rabbits over the flickering flame and sharing a bit of whiskey. “And the man?” Charles finally asked, he’d completely forgotten about the German man until now.

“Brought him over to the little town out there- Rhodes I think it was. A few miles out from here.” And so they began their stay in Rhodes- the filthy little town with no shortage of drunkards or racists. Even the air was stifling, wet and thick and altogether unpleasant. But life went on.

**2 weeks ago: Job II**

The days went on easily after the move, Charles hunting and keeping watch as well as supplying Pearson with able hands for leatherworking. He’d made a table cover and knife sheaths for half the camp already with only a little help from the older cook. Arthur acted mostly as he always had, sometimes offering Charles a quick invitation to go hunting or exploring in caves around camp sometimes disappearing altogether. Anyone in camp who saw this confusing companionship blooming kept their thoughts to themselves and even Dutch didn’t seem to care one way or another, though he’d certainly caught on. It was an easy relationship, if he could even call it that and though he often told himself it was based more on convenience and a shared proclivity than anything, somedays that seemed a weak excuse.

Charles had started noticing Arthur gazing at him with an unreadable expression over the campfire and had allowed the few lingering kisses after particularly heated exchanges. And if he sometimes gazed back and welcomed the stilted affection, he tried not to fixate on it afterwards. He wasn’t blind, but he was realistic- this gang couldn’t last forever and he had none of the delusions of grandiosity that some of his companions seemed to. There was talk of Tahiti, Mexico, California. Of settling farms or ranching cattle. But in the end, the most they could even hope for was another few months of survival and freedom from the law. And so he continued on as normal, waiting out his time here and grabbing up any scraps happiness where he could find them.

But when Arthur’s attention began to slip, Charles couldn’t help the disappointment, surprising himself with the severity of it. He’d invited Arthur hunting three times the past week, each time getting turned down with some thin excuse. Arthur hadn’t even put any effort into making them sound genuine.

“You okay?” He asked one day, sensing Arthur’s tension.

“Yeah, just busy- can’t waste time around camp.” Arthur offered a thin apologetic smile at that as Charles tried to keep a straight face. Is that how Arthur saw him? But he accepted it, heading out to tend to Taima. Arthur didn’t follow. So he steeled his mind for the final rejection sure to come and ignored Arthur right back, avoiding Arthur as he grew more and more short with folks around camp. The man disappeared for days on end, only returning to start fights with Bill or gather supplies from his chest. Charles missed him and hated himself for it.

“Why don’t you take Charles with you Arthur?” Dutch said one day and Charles looked up to see Arthur creeping off toward the horses again. The day’s sunlight was nearly depleted but that never seemed to stop him.

“Don’t think I need anyone else for this job,” Arthur said. Charles tried not to take it personally as Dutch glared at Arthur..

“You said it was a burglary job in Oliver. Lots of law out there.” Dutch turned to Charles, a question on his face.

“Got some chores to do…” Charles said and Dutch’s gaze turned from annoyed to thunderous at the dismissal.

“Fine, fine. I guess I could use another man.” Arthur said, hurriedly. Dutch’s glare eased as he stalked away with a little pat to Charles’s shoulder, suddenly uninterested now that he had his way. Charles fought down the conflicting feelings and followed with a blank face. Whether Dutch meant his as a glorified caretaker or moral compass Charles couldn’t tell but he mounted with a sigh and took off, Arthur by his side.

They’d only been riding for about five minutes before Arthur tried to shake him. “You can head off, tell Dutch you went with me.” Hiding in the woods and waiting for Arthur to return didn’t sound like a great time, especially in this weather. The continued rejection didn’t help either. He took a breath, a week’s worth of frustration just under the surface.

“I don’t mind coming, but I can take a hint too Arthur. Just be upfront if you’re looking to end things,” He’d tried to keep his voice steady and impersonal, like he didn’t really care about any of it, but he couldn’t quite manage.

Arthur looked back at him in surprise, embarrassment creeping up his cheeks at the outburst. “I don’t want to end nothin’!” Charles scoffed and looked away. “Sorry if it seemed that way. I was just… distracted-” He cut himself off. “I’m sorry, truly. But this job? I don’t know…” But Charles made no move to leave and Arthur finally turned away in defeat, “I’ll warn you now, it ain’t nothin’ nice.”

“Rarely is. Where are we going?” He didn’t particularly want to go, but now it seemed personal and he was angry. Arthur couldn’t just ignore him for days and expect him not to make his own assumptions. Arthur increased their pace, urging his horse into a trot on the darkening trail and Charles followed warily.

“Weren’t lyin’ completely about Oliver. We’re destroyin’ a nest, so to speak.” Arthur started awkwardly, clearly still shaken from their previous line of conversation. Charles opened his mouth but struggled to even find the right question to follow with, so he settled on simple.

“A nest?”

“Just a manner of speech- some men are more rats than people, you know?” Charles rather not make that connection, but he nodded, pushing Arthur to continue- not wanting to get sidetracked by semantics. “They’re having a sort of event tonight, figured I’d get them all in one spot and you know…” Charles was starting to catch on. “I’ve been collecting information about them all week. That’s why I’ve been…” he sounded sheepish, “that’s why I’ve been a bastard towards you.” Charles didn’t correct him.

“And those bags?” Arthur didn’t respond so Charles rode even closer and reached for them, eying Arthur, daring him to stop his exploration. But he didn’t, letting Charles unclasp the buckles to reveal bundle after bundle of dynamite. “What the…”

“For the rats.”

“But what’d they do?” He was impatient and suddenly disgusted that _this_ was why Arthur had been skulking around all week. Arthur sighed and considered him, seemingly at a loss for words and for a moment, Charles thought the man would simply refuse to continue his explanation entirely.

“Ever heard of the klan?” It was a rhetorical question surely, awkwardly soft. “Just killed a man last week.” Arthur dug around in his satchel, finding a beat-up newspaper and shoving it in his direction, unable to meet his eyes. “Been trackin’ them for days now.” Charles had to look away, someone had felt the need to print the mauled body of some poor kid on the newspaper.

“But… I get that they’re awful, but isn’t this a bit crazy Arthur?” He was conflicted and tired and mostly just sad, newspaper crumpled in his grasp.

“I didn’t want you to know at all. Didn’t want no one to know, meant to just dispose of them without a trace. But I guess now you do… Will you help me?” Arthur still wouldn’t look at him. Charles deliberated for a time, staring down at the dynamite. When he finally nodded, but he couldn’t help the shudder.

The wind was wild as they took off across the plains in earnest, biting and frozen- an early threat of a brutal winter. The grasses whipped across their horses’ legs, his hair against his face and Charles could only feel numb. It was hours later when they reached the woods surrounding Oliver, usually a pleasant country, tonight chilled to something oppressive. He could see fires in the distance, and some sort of structure and suddenly wanted to turn around. To be anywhere but here.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” Arthur finally said, first words spoken between them in hours. “I should never have dragged you here, but I can’t regret it.” It sounded like he was more speaking to himself than to Charles, so he didn’t respond. After Arthur removed the saddlebag from his horses, and they went the rest of the way on foot, moving quietly through spindly trees and over the rough terrain filled with pitfalls and roots. The wind was on their side though, flowing at their backs and silencing their footfalls. It felt like forever before they reached the dilapidated structure. A church or hunting lodge maybe, it was nondescript, and half caved in on one side.

“Put this on,” Arthur whispered and held out a tin of something as they considered their approach from the tree line. Scent cover lotion? He gave Arthur an inquiring glance. “For the dogs. Sometimes they bring ‘em along.” Charles shivered and took the tin. “Now let’s place the dynamite.” The structure didn’t look very sturdy at least, wooden frame thin and roughly constructed. But when Charles made to peer through one of the empty windowsills, Arthur caught his arm.

“What?” he asked.

“They probably have guards watching. We should be careful.”

“But what if there’s someone else in there?” Arthur looked like he was losing his patience, but Charles held firm. He wasn’t about to kill any poor soul dragged along to whatever this gathering was.

“Fine, I’ll check.” Arthur crept to the lone window and peered inside, and Charles could see the hatred, all too clear on his face. “Yeah, it’s them all right, nobody else.” Charles could breathe a bit easier at that, thoughts of the wadded-up newspaper too fresh in his mind. They worked to position the dynamite at a creeping frustratingly slow pace, Arthur adamant they move silently even though there was no way the men would be able to hear anything past the walls and biting wind. Arthur had taken the front of the structure and Charles the back, securing bundle after bundle of powder death all around them. By the time they were done, even the floorboards had sticks wedged up into them from below. This was more than an assassination; this was a statement. Arthur seemed giddy as Charles attached the final wire from the tree line.

“You sure about this?” Charles asked, nervous despite their care. Despite the justice of it all.

“Yeah.” But as Charles moved to push the lever he hesitated, suddenly unsure himself. Arthur made an impatient hiss and slammed it down himself with considerable force, almost knocking him away in his eagerness. The explosion that followed was deafening, the flashing lights blinding, and Charles found him flattened to the ground by another warm body as debris began to fall around them, only partially protected by the tree canopy. Arthur gasped as his body took the brunt of a falling log and wave of gravel. But as soon as the heavy rain stopped, he was up.

“Stay here.” And then he was running towards the wreckage at full speed, right into the smoke. Suddenly gone with no explanation or reasoning. But when Charles made to follow, he found he couldn’t move his body and he was hit by a wave of fear that he’d been hit by some falling debris and paralyzed. Only his eyes could move, darting around wildly as he struggled to find the words to call Arthur back. To help him, to somehow pull him out of this stupor. But after what felt like forever, he finally pulled himself out himself, quenching whatever panic had immobilized him with a pained grunt. He stumbled over to the wreckage and froze again in horror at the image before him.

Arthur was stooped over a smashed corpse, knife in hand, sawing through the neck with wild abandon. Another few other headless bodies had been pulled from the wreckage of charred wood and gravel, thrown aside like meat. He watched in silence as Arthur finished his hacking to throw the head away by the hair, scanning the rubble for the next corpse to desecrate. Then Arthur was pulled from his trance, eyes snapping up to meet his, mouth falling open in surprise.

“You should be…” Arthur cut himself off. 

Charles wandered through the wreckage, looking down to the mangled remains beneath them. There was a dead woman there, her small size suggesting she may have even been a child. “You lied to me, didn’t you?” It came out almost a whisper, but Charles could see by Arthur’s face that he’d heard every word. The bodies had lost most of their clothing in the blast, but the tattered tunics and jeans looked ordinary enough. Leather boots and satchels blown apart. “Don’t see any hoods or crosses, and believe it or not, I’ve encountered those types before. Know what they look like,” he was louder now, suddenly certain Arthur had tricked him into cold- blooded murder.

“I… I told you they were goddamned rats! Why can’t you just believe me?” Arthur looked distraught, defensive as Charles advanced on him. Standing up and dropping the corpse onto the ruined ground. His sleeves were completely red to the elbow, his hands covered in more than just blood. Hair, sticky gristle, animal parts now. He couldn’t look away from those hands even as he continued on, more and more breathless.

“Because you lied to me! Played with my emotions and manipulated me. And whatever reason you had for killing them, they weren’t rats Arthur, they were people!” He finally moved his gaze to Arthur’s face, but for all the desperation there, there was no regret.

“Debatable.” Charles punched him in the face then, and Arthur staggered back in shock, blood bursting from his nose at the hit, mixing with the gore already there to make a macabre painting of filth. 

“Who were they?” he yelled. There was blood everywhere, ash, soot, the smell of charred corpses and he was shaking uncontrollably.Arthur spit some blood on the ground and Charles felt his stomach roiling as guilt and rage warred within him, he’d never hit a friend before, had never felt such an unhinged hate for one he cared for.

“Don’t matter. I told you to go back, _you’re_ the one who decided to come along.”

“It matters to me.” But Arthur just shrugged, averting his gaze. Charles couldn’t stand this, “we’re done.” Arthur made a pained little sound at _that_ , but made no move to stop Charles from turning away from the wreckage. He made the trek back to his horse, mounting with a final glance that revealed Arthur on his knees on the ground, hard at work with the knife again. He rode back to camp alone and slept still covered in soot, knuckle swollen in a way that betrayed a break. He didn’t talk to anyone at camp that night, and he didn’t talk to Arthur again when the man returned to camp in new clothing the following day.

Over the following week, Charles hunted some, helped Jack with his reading, went fishing with Javier, but every time Arthur appeared near him, he found an excuse to head elsewhere. Arthur was nothing to him, thinking otherwise had only been his own weakness for a pretty face. He also didn’t even touch the little bundle of bills and jewelry that appeared on his pillow, the bounty of their wild job- surely torn from the corpses they’d made. His nights were filled with nightmares and explosions, faceless folks killed for what? He still didn’t know. When Dutch assigned them on the job at the refinery he nodded woodenly and rode off with Arthur for the first time in three weeks with no words for the man. Their third real job together.

**Now: Job III**

Somehow Charles got out of the refinery without any significant injuries of his own. After escaping the search party that thundered past him into the night, Charles crept back in for the body, a mockery of their mission hours earlier. He found the blood stains, a few fragments of flesh and brain, but no Arthur. He gave the furnace a wary look before making another loop. Nothing.

Arthur was dead, and he just had a few papers to show for it, a bundle of crumpled soot-stained scraps. He suddenly felt more alone than he had in years, images of Arthur returning unbidden to his mind. It wasn’t like they had anything real, it was the mockery of love- a weird little flame that ended with no closure, only blood, bullets, and lies. But now Charles couldn’t even retrieve Arthur’s body for burial, the most basic sign of respect and friendship.

He considered just running off, bypassing all the drama back at camp. He’d fade into the woods easily, hunting for one instead of a party and only needing to watch his own back. But for all his annoyance for camp politics and anger at Arthur, there were folks in camp who deserved to know. Hosea, John, Dutch, little Jack. So he made the trip back to camp for one final conversation.

-

“I’m sorry,” he offered, uncomfortable at the eyes glaring up at him. The night was quiet and still and Charles feared bringing his voice above a whisper.

“You sure he went down? Arthur’s escaped some rough encounters before and you say it was smoky in there. Could you be mistaken?” Dutch asked, face stern and Charles could only gape back. He’d spared some of the gory details- the bone fragments, the leaking brains- for Dutch’s sake but he’d relayed the shot to the head and motionless body.

“I’m sure. I tried to get him out after he was shot the first time, but it was too late- he’s dead.”

“That reckless man…,” Dutch said, but he seemed distracted and thoughtful and it made Charles suddenly furious. He didn’t care for the man much in the end, but Dutch was supposedly this man’s family, if anyone should shed a tear for the violent man, it should be him. “So you left him there?” he sounded more curious than angry.

“Went back, but they’d moved him already- I fear they…” he couldn’t say it.

“Feared they what?”

“Put him in the furnace,” he said hesitantly.

“Or he got up and stumbled away somewhere,” Dutch suggested, unflinching at the disbelief Charles could feel obscuring his own face. “You’re a hunter, you’ve seen plenty of deer stumbling on with their entrails hanging out or missing a leg I’m sure. Maybe he wasn’t as dead as you thought.” He opened his mouth to refute it, somehow the image of Arthur flailing around hopelessly in his own blood as enemies drew close around him entirely more sickening than a clean shot to the head. The denial was all too plain on Dutch’s face- maybe he just couldn’t accept it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, no words could make this right now.

“This is how it’ll go Mr. Smith. You’ll return to hunting duty tomorrow and take it easy otherwise. Maybe you’ll get to return to the field someday, we do believe in second chances here.” He nodded back, already having decided to leave. This was a camp of ghosts.

**Alone at Last**

He’d made little progress in the last week, the rain picking up the very night he’d headed out. He had no real goal though, the slow movement meaningless in the whole scheme of things. His goal now was to survive, to hunt, find shelter, stay healthy, wait. The shower was aggressive, coming down in sheets that soaked him fully- boots filled and sloshing with every move forward. Thoughts of warm fires, dry sheets, and tea filtered through his mind as he splashed blindly towards the rock face. Maybe they’d be an overhang or cave to sit low in. But hours later, it was a cabin not a cave that offered sanctuary. The glass windows were planked up, the chimney cold, but it was shelter all the same. 

“Hello?” he called out, knocking gently on the door. Nothing. So he picked the crude lock and let himself in, dim lantern light revealing the age and disrepair around him. Worse was the smell that hit him, almost sending him staggering back into the downpour- rotten flesh, mold, decay. A dead raccoon in the walls hopefully, he didn’t have the heart for another sad dead family. There had been enough corpses spread out through these woods, as if the very land was cursed. The little staircase rose before him, putrid smell wafting down on him like rain.

“Hello?” he asked again, not expecting any sort of answer. But then there was something, a skittering noise. A soft groan. It sounded like someone needed help, but suddenly he wanted nothing more than to withdraw from this place, right back into the cold and rain. But something pushed him on, he felt almost induced to creep upwards, like he couldn’t do anything but climb. If anyone was there, they’d have his path telegraphed completely, each wooden step shrieked at his weight, and all but disintegrated under his boots. Twice he almost fell though the spongy wood, boot heels punching through as they would butter. He had to get to the top though, he’d never needed anything more- he felt it down his legs, in his heart beating frantically in his chest.

He held his breath as he reached that first door, and loose as it was on it’s hinges, it flew open with only the lightest brush of his fingers. The room was filthy, a film of something foul covered the wall, barely illuminated by the dim lantern. And it was empty, save the clothing. Heaps of dresses, pants, shoes even- smell from the wet leather sickeningly strong. Decaying scraps of boots and heels sodden in water, torn shirts crusted in all manner of dirt. In the meager light he could only see the beginnings of the collection, it reached almost to the ceiling here. Dripping water fell from the ceiling from holes in the ancient structure- feeding the mold and must. He suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Something rustled behind the towering mass of melted clothing but even as he sought to flee, he found his legs fused to the ground as if he too was a part of this living breathing room.

His eyes darted at the first signs of movement, what looked like a boot sole dislodged and clattered to the soft floor. He saw the first glimpse of a limb, slowly emerging from behind the tower. Then everything burst into movement, the massive animal lunging from behind the pile on all fours and launching itself at him. Charles couldn’t even move his arms in defense, could only watch in horror as the spindly creature hit him in the chest and easily wrestled him to the floor. But it was no animal, it was a man- crazed and covering in ill-fitting cloth, but a man all the same. He struggled uselessly as he was forced onto his back, the foul man crawling over him, frothing foul saliva dripping from the growling maw of a mouth. Charles had seen rabid animals before, the crazed, mindless bloodlust and jerking movements. But never in a person, never like this.

He felt the mouth at his neck, the legs locked rigidly over his own and for a wild moment he thought that was it. The last vision of his waking life this abomination clinging to him.

“Get off,” he tried to yell, but it came out slurred and weak- as if he’d been drinking all afternoon. And then the teeth sunk into his neck. Sharp, wildly painful with a grip so tight that he couldn’t even begin to thrash away. The creature was slumped over him now, in the mockery of an embrace, snuffling noises breaking out against his neck as it continued tearing at his neck, drawing blood away from him. It felt endless, the side of Charles’s face half submerged in the gelatinous scum, eyes fixed the garment beside him- a little girl’s petticoat, half torn and stained.

“Tastes good. Can feel his mark on you though… got to you first,” the voice against his throat was hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in months, the words hard to make out over the sound of his own heavy breathing. More than anything, the coherence of the human words jarred Charles the most. The first sign that this thing was more than some animal, driven mad form sickness and decay but something intelligent who chose this assault for him. The tearing feast faded into a more languid lapping at his throat finally, his muscles still as useless as jelly, strewn about as he’d been arranged. He felt tears slipping down his cheeks as he waited for this rabid man to just bite deeper, to end it. The alternative would just be him becoming equally crazed and wild as the sickness spread through his own body. He;d seen it in a fox before, in a dog. “Fuck!” The man suddenly pulled back and Charles could finally see his face. Mid-fifties probably, pale and skeletal- hardly human under the dim light of his fallen lantern. “Fuck.” He hurriedly stumbled to his feet and backed away from Charles, mumbling under his breath. And with a gasp of air, Charles limbs burst to life and suddenly he could move again. He scrambled to his feet shaking and dizzy, but fully in control.

“Get out of here. And just be lucky you’re already claimed,” the figure was slowly fading backwards as if pained, hunched back and dripping lips curled into something awful. A clawed hand reached out to steady himself on the towered cloth mound, causing a small avalanche between them. That was all the chance Charles needed, freed hand now flying to his belt in desperation. The man truly looked surprised, eyes jerking up to meet his own as the sawed off was leveled at him. Charles felt the exhaustion coming on, felt his limbs being to fail him again, but he was able to tighten his finger on the trigger even as his hand began to go limp. The shot burst out in the enclosed room and his ears rung in pain, even the air seemed alive now. And with just that one little movement, the man fell right into the toppling mound of decaying filth face first, blood immediately blooming out through the back of his ragged shirt from shoulder to mid back.

Charles collapsed to one knee, breathing heavily as the faintness set on- he’d lost a lot of blood, rivulets of it still freely running down his side and onto the floor. He was cold, wet and dazed and for a time, he considered just lying down in the nest of filth to regain his strength. He was still staring at the slumped dead man when the first movement began. A slight twitch that Charles didn’t completely trust to be real, then a gurgling noise. Then the face moved, chin completely wrecked from shrapnel but eyes still too full of life. A snarl. Charles fled then, a mad scramble backwards using his hands to pull himself backwards and away from the thing. A frantic rush down the stairs, leg going cleanly through one step. He pulled it back out and somehow reached the bottom in a panic. One final glance up the stairs revealed the gaunt but towering figure, hand wrapped around its stomach, gaze fixed on Charles as he made it to the main door. He pushed himself out into the cold wet air and ran for Taima, stumbling and faint from the blood loss. He rode all through the night, shivering and haunted- moving in an unknown direction.

He lasted two more days on his own, feverish and stricken by what he’d seen. He’d ridden straight through the first night, intent on getting as far as could from that damn cabin, every glance behind him full of fear that thing would be just behind him, fast as a horse on its four long limbs. The second day his tired horse forced him to stop, frothing at the mouth and stumbling blindly. With an apology he dismounted and slumped to the ground- uncaring of the puddles, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been dry.

He tried to sleep that night, right on the forest floor, but his throat burned, and he could only wait in fear for whatever infection to manifest itself. The wound never clotted completely and even now the tooth punctures easily broke open at any small movement, flesh puckered and pale as if it’d been submerged for days. He finally slept in fitful bursts and the next day he began the long trek back to Dutch and the gang.

-

“You’re back?” Dutch said, face unreadable as he wandered back into camp disheveled and haunted.

“Yeah.”

“Get some sleep, you look a mess. Tomorrow you’re coming with me and Hosea to Rhodes, we have a man to meet about some moonshine.” Charles tried to keep the surprise out of his voice at the easy forgiveness. Dutch seemed to notice his confusion and looked suddenly uncomfortable, “I know Arthur meant a lot to you.” He wanted to correct Dutch, to declare just how little he cared for the dead man, but his throat ran dry. It wasn’t true and they both knew it. “And I know you tried your best to bring him back, that means more than you know. Get yourself cleaned up Mr. Smith.” And with a final pat to the shoulder Charles was alone again.

**The Return**

Charles was making tea when Arthur returned a week later. Wasting time staring at the leaves swirl about in a little tin cup. He hadn’t been sleeping, relying heavily on those leaves to stand up straight. He heard the cough but didn’t look up, so engrossed by the tea, only bothering a glance at the gentle kick that reverberated through the log bench. He looked over, freezing in utter amazement- it was Arthur, standing up straight, eyes clear and unblemished. Charles couldn’t say anything, brain struggling to make sense of the picture in front of him, half convinced he was hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time. Arthur reached for his arm and gave it an awkward pat, shocking him out of his trance.

“Charles…” He didn’t respond, searching the camp for others to collaborate what he was seeing. Abigail’s gleeful scream was the first bit of evidence, the woman a barrage of skirts and hair as she flung herself into Arthur’s arms.

“You’re alive! Gods Arthur, we all thought…” she trailed off, suddenly looking embarrassed as she locked eyes with Charles, arms still tight around Arthur’s neck. “Um…” she pulled herself back, “a misunderstanding I’m sure but it was hell. John’s hardly said a word in weeks and Jack’s no better.” The thrilled grin remained, even as she moved back, and Charles was almost jealous of how easily Abigail accepted it. 

“I’m sorry Abigail, I never meant to worry ya’ll. Was hurt pretty bad…” Charles heart sunk as she turned on him, hands on her hips.

“I thought you said you saw him dead?”

“Abigail, it weren’t Charles’s fault. Was just one of those things…” he trailed off and the three of them just stood there uncomfortably before Abigail grabbed Arthur’s hand, making to drag him off towards her tent where Jack had refused to leave over the past weeks. “I’ll talk to you after checkin’ in with the kid?” Arthur asked, almost looking guilty.

“Yeah…” Charles responded quietly.

It took Arthur longer than expected, Jack’s squeal of joy even more dramatic than Abigail’s, even though the canvas tent walls. Loud enough to lure out Dutch, relived face poking out of his tent. He spared Charles a big grin as he rushed off to enter the tent and greet his son. Then Hosea, Karen, and even Bill followed- usual angry expression settled into something milder. It seemed like the whole gang suddenly was shocked back to life after weeks of awkward silence and bad tempers. It was an hour before Arthur finally sought him out in the woods by camp, finding him easily and sitting down on the log lightly, like none of the past month had even happened.

“Sorry it took so long, never knew I was so popular…” an awkward laugh, “they probably just miss gettin’ out of tendin’ their own damn horses.” Charles sought something to say, any words to ask the one big question. Arthur continued in the silence, “are you still mad then? I don’t mean to say you shouldn’t be after all that nasty business, but well… I was hopin’ you’d wanna talk at least.” Arthur sounded broken enough that Charles spared him a glance, taking in his face fully for the first time since he returned. No scars or gaping holes, but his skin was paler than before, a sickly layer of perspiration on his forehead. He looked ill.

“I…” where to begin. “I’m glad you’re alive,” was all he managed, suddenly overcome with weeks’ worth of emotion. “But I don’t understand.”

“Me neither, not entirely. I don’t remember much to be honest.” Arthur asked him with the tone of his confession. Charles blinked back, _he’d_ wanted answers, but Arthur’s face was blank and confused. So he tried to recount that day he’d relived every night.

“You were shot in the leg, stumbled… so I.” Charles found it harder and harder to speak under Arthur’s gaze and his own confusion. “It was hard to see in there with all the smoke, I thought they killed you so I left you there.” He weakly gestured to his head, thinking wildly back to that day. He’d seen the blood seeping across the dirt floor, he was absolutely certain of it. Could that have been someone else’s? Had they shot another man who’d have bled out beside them? He supposed they might have, it had been a wild few minutes of frantic action- both of them dead set on their only exit to freedom. But what about the little cuts that still scarred his own face? The crescent moon carved out from Arthur’s bone lodged in his cheek, the blood he’d washed from his shirt in a daze down at the river later that night?

“It’s not your fault,” Arthur said confidently. Charles flinched at that, feeling the all too familiar wave of shame slowly creep over him and he wanted nothing more than to crawl away. Here was a dead man, standing before him, his very presence painting Charles as both a liar and a coward. And how could he deny the evidence?

“I…” he couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, calm down would you? I think maybe I got hit in the back of the head by somethin.’ A rock maybe? Or a brick. Don’t blame you for thinkin’ I was shot.” Arthur scratched the back of his head. “It’s alright. I escaped when I woke up.” But it wasn’t. That wasn’t what he’d seen at all. Arthur’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “What happened to your throat?” Arthur’s fingers flew to the scar, still peaking out from his collar- the closest he’d been to Charles in weeks. He looked furious.

Suddenly Charles flinched back, the smell of musty clothing and rotten flesh crowded him and near knocking the breath from him. The piercing, tearing pain of teeth on his flesh a phantom pain. Images unbidden of Arthur crawling forward through the refinery as blood and gore poured forth from his face on all fours, tearing his way into the woods. A gored wolf creeping off with it’s entails dragging behind it to lick its wounds.

“You…” he couldn’t help the single step backwards.

Arthur caught on real fast, face twisting with surprise and something unreadable and fierce. Thoughts of that monstrous predator in the woods washed over him, of Charles’s nightmares and slowly unraveling sanity. Arthur knew he knew. He had to get out of here, had to get a weapon between the two of them. But Arthur was ready, easily catching him as he tried to rise, pushing him down into the leave litter with a little growl while tearing the firearm free from his waist.

“I’ve never met such a liar,” Charles gasped. All those weeks and Arthur had been alive as he slowly unraveled in his guilt and loneliness.

“You know.” Arthur hardly even sounded human now, keeping Charles down without any effort, hands like vices over his wrists. Charles heart was beating hard and Arthur’s gaze flickered down to his chest. “How long?”

“Not till now,” he struggled to reply. He hadn’t truly known until Arthur confirmed it, was still half convinced he was insane and his whole ordeal in the cabin was a figment of a diseased brain. So he lashed out, “thought you were just psychotic for the longest time, hated myself for caring for you at all- and that was before I knew.” Arthur flinched at the malice in the words and voice, but Charles didn’t let him down easy. “You just about drove me mad with your games and lies, you know that?”

“I had to. What was the alternative? This?” Arthur pushed his wrists down harder, a promise that Charles wasn’t getting up any time soon. He couldn’t help the wetness gathering in his eyes, the situation too similar to that in the woods a week before. He’d never believed his life had any meaning, every day waiting for his last in apathy. But this? He supposed he’d dug his own grave, ignoring each warning thrown down before him. Owen, Micah, all the targets Arthur had stalked through the night, torturing and blowing to pieces. But was he any better? Much of that same blood stained his own hands too.

“Better this than all your games. What do you even want?”

“I don’t know, don’t wanna kill you.” It would be so easy, Charles’s gun was ten feet away, his arms locked in place. All Arthur had to do was make the move, lose control and tear at his throat. But Arthur wasn’t the hideous ravenous monster he’d met in that cabin, his pupils were dilated oddly, his teeth bared into something sharp and alien, but he looked down at him with calculating eyes, not with crazed bloodlust and decaying sockets. This was better he decided, he cared for Arthur and even now some part of him thrilled to see the man alive and before him. Maybe it would be okay this way.

He laughed a little at the thought and Arthur looked even more baffled. “Why? Nothing stopped you before.”

“Nothing?” Arthur’s dazed look fell from his face, leaving something fierce behind. “I could have killed you all whenever I wanted, you think you didn’t tempt me every day? And the rest of them? Been livin’ with the gang my whole life since Dutch saved me. Learnin’ your customs, keepin’ everyone safe from all them bastards that tried to rip us apart. You think that’s nothin’?” He was breathing hard and Charles felt his wrist pop out of the socket at the force of the grip. Arthur pulled back in disgust and surprise, hands releasing him and jumping back as if in fear of _him_. Quieter this time, “I’d do it all again- all them things I killed.”

“Arthur,” he started slowly, as if talking to a spooked horse, “who were those people we killed? Please. I don’t care if you kill me after, I just have to know.”

“Won’t kill you, already told you that.” Arthur refused to meet his eyes, the booming anger gone as soon as it’d appeared. “They was my birth family. Dutch shot my Pa, but he’d didn’t kill him well enough to stay dead proper. I tried to keep us hidden but he caught on, brought the rest of them here into Dutch’s territory to take me back.”

“But…what _were_ they?”

Arthur just shrugged. “Rats. It don’t matter.”

“But that’s…I don’t understand…” He was shivering now, didn’t have the will to move even with his wrists freed from the heavy grasp. “You’ll just let me walk away?”

Arthur gave him a pained grimace, “I expect you’ll keep your mouth shut. Who would even believe you? And what would you gain from it?” And he was right, Charles had nobody to tell, nobody to run to now. “I still don’t understand how you even discovered any of this shit…”

“I know where one of your friends are,” was all he could say to that. Arthur cocked his head, curious, staring at his neck again. “There’s a cabin up north…” Charles rubbed the side of his neck unconsciously, the pain still tingling by his ear, even all these days later. He almost pulled away impulsively when he felt a hand back at his collar, prying it up again with low growl in his ear. “He said I was already claimed before I shot him dead, but he didn’t stay down so I ran. That’s how I know.”

“It was an accident, what I did to you...” Charles’s hand still had a faint shiny scar, but he resisted acknowledging the wound.

“I don’t belong to no one Arthur.”

“Course not, but to my kind…” Arthur hadn’t moved back, was still crouched by the neck. “Will you come back with me? After I kill that thing for you? I’ll bring you his head.” Arthur looked wrecked and confused, like Charles was the one with all the power somehow. 

He hesitated, thought of all the years alone and at odds with the people he’d stumbled across. Fear or resentment for him, a woman clutching her purse closer, a smirk and rough shove. His face burned and his wrist hurt. Were his feelings for this inhuman man even real, or some sort of poison trickling through his blood with every breath?

The rain had picked up again, but he was already too sodden and muddy from the leaf cover beneath him to feel its sting. “You’re cold,” Arthur said slowly and went to cover his shoulders with his own woolen coat, “I don’t feel it much.” Charles gave a final glance out at the darkening woods, the one place he’d always felt safest, now filled with shadows of monsters and the stench of blood, then turned to follow Arthur back to camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they'll be happy now or maybe the disfunction will continue, who really knows. Thanks for reading, this was interesting to write but I'm definitely worn out from it!


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